by Watson Davis
“I…I’m sorry?” Aissal reached out to grasp Rucker’s shoulder, but he’d backed away, eyes wide, mouth open.
“I’m sure you are.” He raised his right hand, the ring on his forefinger glowing blue, saying, “Pa lis rowlai.”
His hand glowed, motes of magic winking into existence, floating away and winking out. Aissal’s collar crackled, shocking her, tightening around her throat. She reached up, clawing at the collar, trying to work her fingers in between the magical glass and the skin of her throat, but the two had attached, the strange substance melding to her skin.
The priest walked away, not even looking back.
Aissal fought, but her collar pulled at her, impelling her forward. Rucker passed her, sobbing, tugging at his collar, ripping his fingernails from his hands, staggering toward the priest, his collar herding him forward.
Captured in Fizer
I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, sighing. One trail, the trail of Aissal and Rucker, left the forest, getting on the road heading toward the town. The other trail, Cole’s trail, doubled back into the woods.
I chose to follow Cole, his the least dangerous course of the two, and walked along the forest’s edge, recreating his steps, seeing where he’d stopped, where he’d probably watched Aissal and Rucker through a break in the trees and bushes, his trail showing him shuffling, continuing along a fence, crouching, jumping the fence, his steps leading toward a barn beside a house outside the town.
I scratched my head, checking the sun’s progress in a blue sky patched with tufts of white clouds. Too early for me to consider leaving the forest and following Cole further, too early to poke around some farmhouse and risk getting caught, I retreated back into the woods. My eyes searched the ground for places a squirrel would hide nuts for the winter, finding a tree with heavy roots, and knelt between those roots, pushing the leaves aside, digging my fingers in the dirt until they brushed the hard shells of nuts, pulling the nuts out.
Someone shouted, too far away for me to resolve into words, but I heard the anger, the certainty of command. More angry voices joined the first. One dog barked, more, merging into a snarling chorus.
Standing up, dropping the nuts I’d found, my mouth dry, heart pounding, knowing things were about to get worse, I jogged back to the fence, and settled myself in beside it, watching the farmhouse, ready to run, doubting anyone could see me, hoping Cole hadn’t been captured.
A farmer paced around before the barn, kicking at the dirt, cursing, screaming, a frightened woman on the porch of the farmhouse hugging two children against her hips. One slave prepared a buggy for driving, another slave guiding a proud, light-footed horse from the large stable beside the barn, hooking the beast’s yoke up to the buggy. The farmer climbed in, shouting orders to the slaves, yelling to be heard over the yipping of the dogs, and wedged himself into the seat. A crack of the whip, and the buggy shot off, a cloud of dust and dirt billowing up, down a path from the barn to a pot-holed, rutted road leading into town, the dogs chasing after.
I slid through the gap in the fence and ran toward the farmhouse, hunching, keeping my body low, watching for movement, for someone to spot me, my feet sinking slightly in the thick, black dirt every time they touched the ground. My breathing growing rougher and rougher, a part of me worried about my lack of conditioning, my weakness, but a part of me reveled in the exertion, in being able to run after such a long time, the warmth of the sun beating on my skin, sweat pouring from me, wind tugging at my hair.
Closer and closer I came to the barn, lifting my sling from my neck, clearing the saddle, dropping a stone in, straining my ears for some sound from the barn, from the stables, from the farmhouse, some clue that they had caught Cole, that they held him. I slowed my pace, hiding behind a shed. A chicken squawked, scurrying out of the large barn door before me, one of the slaves striding out with a long, thin-bladed knife in his hand, a bored expression on his face, heading toward one of the fields.
“Hey,” I said, staring at him, raising my hand, waving to him.
He flinched, jerking away from me in surprise, dropping the knife in the dirt, holding his hands out before him, his eyes wide.
“No harm to you,” I said, staying behind the shed. “I’m looking for a young man my age, a slave like us.”
The man’s face paled. “You’re an escaped slave.”
“Did you catch him?” I asked. “Do you have him in the barn?”
“If they find out I talked to you, they’re going to beat me, starve me.” He edged toward me, hands spread, palms down, his eyes glancing this way, that way.
“Don’t let them find out,” I said. “The other slave, the guy I’m looking for, have you seen him?”
He knelt, picking up the knife, pointing it at me. “But if I hand you to them, they might feed me extra.” He smiled and winked. “They might free me.”
“Shhh.” With my left hand, I motioned to him to keep his voice down, for quiet, holding my right hand out behind me swinging the sling where he couldn’t see it. “We share a common burden, you and I. We should be together, friends, helping each other.” Had I ever followed that code? No, but he didn’t need to know that.
“You’re an Onei.” He smiled, charging toward me.
A twirl of my wrist, a twist of my hips, a smooth stone flew toward him, striking him in the collar bone with a thump. Two steps forward and he fell to his knees, knife slipping from his numb fingers, right arm hanging useless at his side, his left hand rising up, mouth gaping open, eyes lacking comprehension.
I sprinted to his side, grabbing the knife, placing the blade against his neck, saying, “Answer my question. Have you seen the slave I described?”
“Maybe,” he said, his throat constricting, his breathing growing fast as the pain started to register.
“Yes or no,” I said, pressing the knife into his flesh.
Words poured from his lips like reindeer piss. “Someone stole a horse, the lord’s best racehorse, took off. A slave, we think. The master went to town to tell the sheriff.”
“Which way did he go?” I eased back on the knife.
“That way.” He pointed away from town.
Was this their plan? Was he going to loop around and pick up Aissal and Rucker somewhere further down the road?
A woman screamed.
The farmer’s woman stood on her porch, her hands over her mouth.
I ran toward her.
# # #
Aissal knelt face down on the wood floor, on her hands and knees, her forehead pressing against the planks, the narrow gap cutting into her skin, pain shooting from her collar through her entire body, through her soul. At her side, Rucker cried, sobs racking his body, his breath ragged.
Aissal desired nothing more than to help him, to be a good model, an example of strength, but she feared she had failed them both, knew it down to her soul, sobs racking her own body, tears dripping down her nose, snot bubbling out of her nose, forcing her to snort like some animal or an orc, Chaykayni forbid.
“But, Glesener, my friend, why’d you bring them here to me?” Renaud, the Sheriff of Fizer asked, sitting on the edge of his desk in his office, one black boot on the floor, the other leg half on the desk, his boot hanging down, swinging slowly. “They’re just a couple of kids. Granted, one of them is blue, but still kids.”
Glesener, the priest who had herded them in, treating them like wayward children, or escaped pigs, stepped back behind them, his hands clasped behind his back. “They are escaped slaves and must be returned to their master.”
“Those are monastery collars,” the sheriff said.
“And, Renaud?” Glesener asked. “They still must be returned.”
“You’re a priest.” The sheriff pointed at them with both of his hands and gestured back another direction, in a way Aissal imagined the monastery must lie, although she’d lost track of all sense of direction. The sheriff said, “Slaves. Monastery. Priest. Monastery. Do you get where I’m going
with this?”
“Returning slaves is your job,” Glesener said.
“Not on my day off, it isn’t. On my day off, fishing is my job. Sitting by the side of a pond with a fishing rod in my hand, that’s my job on my day off.”
Glesener shook his head. “Returning slaves is not my job at all. My job is to stay here and manage the happiness and productivity of the souls in this village.”
“And you do a magnificent job, Glesener, you really do.” The sheriff peered down at his boot, swinging back and forth until the furrow in his brow smoothed out. “You know. Technically, since they belong to the monastery, they belong to the temple, and if they belong to the temple, they belong to you. So. I’ve already returned them to their rightful owner. You.” He clapped his hands together, standing up, walking to Glesener’s side, laying his hand on the priest’s back, directing him toward the door. “I love completing tasks. Especially easy ones like that. I’ll see you tonight at service.”
“Renaud.” Glesener sighed, shaking his hand, pushing the sheriff’s hand away. “Your job is to return them to the monastery. If you don’t want to take them today, that’s fine. Go on and put them in the cells and put it off until Oneday.”
The sheriff ducked his head, raising his hands in defeat. “OK. If you don’t want to take time out of your busy day to return these miscreants to the monastery, I’ll do it. On Oneday. First thing.”
“Thank you,” Glesener said, inclining his head, making a gesture to the sheriff. “I turn them over to you.”
“Thank you, Glesener. You have a wonderful day.” The sheriff escorted the priest to the door, easing it shut behind him. “You damned asshole.”
The agony eased up.
Rucker fell to the floor, rolling to his side, gasping. Aissal sat back, lifting her hands to her face, breathing deep, wiping her fingers over her eyes, pushing away the tears. Grateful for the respite, she contemplated the sheriff, a human with brown hair, tanned skin, lined like polished wood. Bowing her head, she said, “Thank you.”
“Kid.” He shook his head, a sadness in his eyes. “I’m the last person in the world you need to be thanking.”
“They’re going to kill us.” Aissal shook her head, raising her hands to him, pleading with him. “You can’t take us back.”
“Stand up,” he said, edging back away from the two of them, not looking Aissal in the eye, gazing down and away from them, giving Aissal a hint of hope her words reached his heart somehow, reached his sense of compassion, but he raised his arm, gesturing toward the door leading back into the jail where the cells were.
Aissal stood, helped Rucker to his feet, hugging him, looking up at the sheriff, at his dark padded-leather shirt and black pants and boots. “They are sacrificing people at the monastery, innocent people, children.”
“Come on, now,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Don’t make me activate the prodding spells. Neither of us want that.”
“You seem to be a good man, an honest man, a just man.” Aissal pushed Rucker through the door, guiding him even as she peeked back at the sheriff, exiting the sheriff’s office, entering the main work area of the jail, weapons on the wall behind a couple of desks, swords, shields, spears, bows and arrows, and curiously, almost disgustingly, meat cleavers you’d expect in a butcher’s shop. She said, “Where can there be justice and honor in the slaying of innocent children?”
“Trillas?” The sheriff raised his hand, waving it to get the attention of one of the two deputies sitting at a desk across the room, beneath the armory on the wall. “Lock these two up in the far left cell.”
One of the men rose, the elder of the two, leaning over the desk to open a drawer and remove a ring of keys. “Together?”
“Yeah.” The sheriff waited by the door to his office.
“Come on.” The man ambled over to Aissal and Rucker, his very walk brash and full of himself, confident and cocky, selecting a key from the bunch on the ring. “This way.”
“Now,” the sheriff said, his thumbs hitched in his belt, “if you two think you can handle the rest of the emergencies that are going to crop up over the next day, I’ll bid you farewell. If you don’t think you can handle them, well, shut up and do your best.”
He turned toward his office.
A sound reverberated through the office, the sound of boots stomping on wooden planks, the sound of a man running, dogs barking. The door burst open and a man dressed in farmer’s clothes fell through it, motioning to a point beside the door, yelling, “Stay.”
Near to collapsing on the floor, the man bent over with his hands on the patched knees of his trousers, a rope holding his trousers on his thin frame, panting for breath, his khaki, threadbare shirt spotted with dark rings of sweat, his skin tanned a dark brown, his gray hair wispy on the top of his head, thicker and darker around the back and sides, a close-cropped gray beard.
“Frontin?” The sheriff pointed at the other deputy, and slid his finger through the air in the direction of the man in the doorway. “Deal with whatever it is that’s almost killed poor Iacobel, good?”
“Good, boss.” Frontin stood, more of a boy than a man, slender and of slight build, his leather armor fitting loose on him like it was made for a much larger man and taken in.
“No.” Iacobel, the old man, stood, shaking his head. “A boy done stole Lord Kye-harue’s racehorse.”
Aissal sucked in her breath, her hands rising to her mouth.
“Frontin and Trillas can handle whatever prank someone’s playing,” Sheriff Renaud said. “I’ve got some delinquent fish to go catch.”
“Could it be Caldane?” Rucker whispered, looking up at Aissal. “Ask them if it was an Onei?”
Trillas grabbed Rucker’s arm, turning the boy to face him. “What’s this about an Onei?”
Aissal placed her hand over Rucker’s mouth. “His best friend at the monastery. He was hoping for a rescue.”
“Renaud, this weren’t no prank,” Iacobel continued. “Looked to be an escaped slave.”
The sheriff eased back into the room, shaking his head, shoulders slumping, glaring at Rucker and Aissal. “Were there more in your party to escape the monastery?”
Aissal kept her hand over Rucker’s mouth, pulling him closer against her body. “I do not associate with horse thieves.”
“The boy asked about an Onei,” Trillas said, pushing them into a cell, closing the metal barred door behind them.
Aissal released Rucker, stumbling into the cell, but returning to grab the bars, Rucker beside her.
“An Onei this far south?” The sheriff crossed his arms over his chest, pursing his lips. “Heard lots of tales about Onei, how good they are at covering their tracks, how dangerous they are in a fight. Always wanted to put those tales to the test.”
“This weren’t no Onei,” Iacobel said. “A brown haired teenager, he picked out the best horse in the stable, a racehorse, and rode it like a lord with a pack of demons after his soul. Headed out on the road toward Giniet.”
"That new Nayen stallion of his?" the sheriff asked.
Iacobel nodded. "The very one."
“Cole?” Rucker looked up at Aissal, his eyes wide, his chest a little fallen. “Cole wouldn’t desert us.”
Aissal grabbed him, putting her hand over his mouth. “Shh.”
Trillas spoke up, saying, “The boy says the kid’s name is Cole.”
“Well. All the damned hells.” Sheriff Renaud sighed, shaking his head, walking over to the wall, taking down the cleavers and attaching them to a bandolier across his chest. “Trillas? Gather up a couple of the boys to come with us so we can go get the lord’s horse back. Frontin, you take care of those two. Iacobel?”
The old man nodded. “Sure. I can come with ya.”
“No,” the sheriff said. “I want you to go tell the lord we’re going to get his horse back.”
“I’d really prefer to go with ya and tell him we done got it already after we got it than to go now and tell him you may or m
ay not be coming back with it.”
The sheriff stared at the old man for a moment, raised his hand, and said, “You do whatever you think is going to make your master the happiest.”
# # #
The clouds moved in earlier in the night, covering the moon, blocking its light, the ground muddy from a sprinkle of rain. Dogs growled and barked at me even before I reached the fence, but a few dead squirrels and the offer of a hand to be sniffed, and we were all old friends.
I skulked between the houses, the buildings, the shops, staying in the shadows, peeking in the windows, seeing only darkness and shadows except for the stray candle burning, the stray magelight fluttering, all the homes seeming empty, wondering where I would find Aissal and Rucker, if I would find them.
The Imperial Temple stood in the center of the town, surrounded by fountains, nine statues of the empress, each delicately thin, beautiful and serene, each bending down and presenting an ear for parishioners to whisper their desires and hopes to her. I circled the temple, its magelights shining bright through its stained glass windows, like a beacon, like a flame drawing moths to their doom.
I slipped in between the statues and the fountains, approaching the gray stone building. The front doors opened, the bright light inside spilling out, a priest opening the door, standing by it, as one by one the people of the town shook his hand, solemn, bowing over his hand, and walked back out into the town.
I inched away from the temple, back to the corner of a building, a weaver’s shop, watching the door, watching the people exiting, waiting for someone alone, someone walking my way. A couple walked that way, a family the other, a single woman walked off but away from me, until a single man shook the priest’s hand, speaking words to him I couldn’t hear. I held my breath until I saw him walk my way, striding with his head high, a knife on his left hip hanging from his leather belt, baggy trousers tucked into the tops of his oddly expensive boots, an ill-fitting tunic, a craftsman of some sort.
Sliding my knife into my hands, I retreated deeper into the shadows, but he turned down another lane, more people walking down that street, talking to each other. I jogged across the street, hoping no one would notice my ragged clothes, slave’s collar, or the color of my skin as I stepped into the light, turning my head away from them as though I were looking at one of the other families further down the street. I rushed down the lane parallel to the one he’d taken, the street tight with narrow houses side-by-side, the buildings pressing together from either side.
